After all of the hours of mulling over Saturday night’s biblical steamer at M&T Bank Stadium, I have come to one conclusion: when it comes down to “getting over it,” either your glass is half full or it’s half empty. And in some cases over the first two nights of my personal elimination from any more fun this NFL postseason, it depended on which hour you actually ask me. The emails started late Saturday night — actually more like Sunday morning, once the bars closed I got a curiously large pile of emails — mostly knee-jerk, rambling jibberish, the rumblings of a discontented and heartbroken public. I know how that feels because I’m ONE OF YOU! I came home, I wanted to cry, I watched the Philadelphia-New Orleans game and sulked and shouted random “F-bombs” and “Damns!,” mumbling out loud to no one in particular. Then I received a couple of my favorite emails (paraphrasing): “So, Nasty, you Dundalk jerk, are you going to go soft and talk about what a great season it was, blah, blah, blah or are you gonna tell the truth. That Billick is a horrible coach, Rex Ryan’s defense proved to be soft in the